I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed,
And then did something speak to me-I knew not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine."
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.
But Effie you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived-I cannot tell-I might have been his wife;
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know,
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine-
Wild-flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun-
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true-
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home→→→

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come-
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast-

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

TENNYSON.

Absalom.

THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd

Their glossy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse,

The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the big stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest.

How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashion'd for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel-and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those
Whose love had been his shield-and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom-
For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
The proud, bright being, who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy

The heart that cherish'd him-for him he pour'd,
In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd
To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
His helm was at his feet: his banner, soil'd
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him: and the jewell'd hilt,

Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David enter'd, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died: then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb!
My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'my father!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee: I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young;

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,

How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;-
And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"

He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he lasp'd.
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently-and left him there-
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

To his Sister-From the Rhine. THE castled crag of Drachenfels

WILLIS.

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lowers,

And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers; But one thing want these banks of RhineThy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;

Though long before thy hand they touch,

I know that they must wither'd be,

But yet reject them not as such;

For I have cherish'd them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And knowest them gather'd by the Rhine, And offer'd from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round:
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes, in following mine,
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

The Fountain.

WE talk'd with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke,

And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match

This water's pleasant tune

With some old border song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon;

"Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes,
Which you last April made!

In silence Matthew lay and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-hair'd man of glee:

BYRON